The Pier, page 25
“Afternoon, Chris. Are we ready for the showdown?” She nervously wiped the already clean table with the white bar towel.
“That depends. Are you ready to hear about your part?”
She placed my luncheon order and sat across from me. “Lay it on me.”
I outlined her role and emphasized how important it was that she portrayed me as “nutty as a fruitcake” for trying to catch a murderer. “Tell him it’s endearing, but stupid. The tricky part is for him to believe that Charles is out of town, and that you’re supposed to tell me he left me a note in the office. You know I’m in Charleston until midafternoon, and you’ll give me the message then. Charles told you the note tells me where and when to meet him.
“Amber,” I continued, “are you sure he’ll be in?”
“He’s been here every Wednesday for as long as I can remember; don’t see any reason why tomorrow will be different.”
“Good. It should work,” I said, with much less conviction than I would have hoped.
“Charles was all excited,” she said. “Said he loved the story about having to go to Savannah to see his sick sister. Charles doesn’t have a sister, you know. He said this was the best of both worlds. He didn’t have to put up with a sister and buy her Christmas presents and stuff ... yet, he could tell everyone how close they were. Such a sweet, loving family.”
“Only Charles would be able to pull that off,” I said.
“It’s sad, in a way; he doesn’t have any real family. This is his way of creating a nice, warm family. He’s much more insecure than he wants people to believe.”
Before I left, Amber grabbed my hand and told me to be careful—said she would have serious trouble coming to work if she didn’t know I’d be there. I was touched and told her so. It could have been my imagination, but I saw a tear in her eye.
CHAPTER 46
I wanted to go home, get in bed, and pull the covers over my head. Knowing that may not be the most mature, adult, and mentally healthy thing to do, I went home and tried to walk through everything I knew about the deaths of Julius Palmer and Mike Hogan. Were the deaths related? Were we looking at the right suspects? Did our less-than-perfect plan make sense? What could we have done differently? And, the most important question: what in the hell was I doing?
I had a serious headache. Maybe the bedcovers-over-the-head thing wasn’t such a bad idea.
* * * *
I slept but didn’t know when. I tossed and turned. The low roar of the aging furnace failed to lull me to sleep. I was relieved to see the clock turn six, so I could justify getting up. Coffee and a breakfast of two granola bars followed: health food for a busy—and hopefully productive—day. I would have preferred a warm and friendly meal at the Dog but didn’t want to be around while Amber was completing her part of the great plan. Besides, I needed to go to the gallery to make sure everything was in place.
Amber called a little after eight and said, “Mission accomplished—the bug in the ear’s been placed, and the bait taken ... maybe.” She sounded more like her son with the spy talk, but I got the message ... maybe.
Bill and I had already put our own little bug in the ear of our assigned suspect, and now it was up to Bob to do his part.
On my six hundred and fifty-third pace between the living room and the kitchen (9:35 a.m. in clock time), the phone rang.
“Ready to enter Harry the Sleaze’s office,” said Bob. “Call me in fifteen.” The line went dead.
Cryptic phrasing was part of the plan, I supposed. I knew what he’d meant and continued my pacing for fifteen more minutes, then took a deep breath and called Bob’s cell phone.
“Yes, this is he. Oh, hi, Charles. Of course I remember ... thanks for calling back,” Bob said to my silent end of the phone. “Can we get together next week about making an offer ... Savannah, okay .I hope she’s okay ... yeah, I’ll be seeing Chris later today. We have a meeting about some house over there . note about tonight under the keyboard ... yeah, at his gallery ... sure, I’ll tell him ... sounds interesting. You really think there’s a killer? Tonight, wow ... okay, yes, I said I would ... I’ll call you Monday about getting together ... see you.”
He hung up. When Bob was conversing with dead air, he made more sense—and definitely was more polite—than in any real conversation. Amazing.
All the seeds had been sown. Now it was showtime.
I spent the rest of the daylight hours staying out of sight. I drove to James Island and visited the Ravenous Reader Bookstore, catching up with my magazine scanning, then puttered around Office Depot. I achieved absolutely nothing. I returned to the gallery about an hour before dark, in time to hear Larry’s knock on the back door. I’d been expecting him but was still startled by the sound.
“You were right,” he said. “The lock’s been jimmied.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Yep. It wasn’t too difficult, obviously.” Larry was referring to his installation of a cheaper lock set the day before. “It didn’t take a pro; I could’ve done it in my sleep. You didn’t touch the keyboard, did you?”
“Just came in the front door and was waiting for you.”
“Good,” he said. He was in his element.
We went to the desk; I took a clean rag and lifted the keyboard. No surprise.
“The note’s been moved,” I said. “I left it facing the back. Someone put it back facing forward. I guess that narrows the suspects down a bit.”
Larry had put on rubber gloves he had in his pocket; he carefully lifted the note and placed it in a clear, Ziploc freezer bag. He slowly read it: “Chris, I know who it was and can prove it. Meet me at seven thirty Wednesday night at the Folly Beach Marina. I should be back from Savannah by then.”
“The prints on here may help,” said Larry. “Especially if your idiotic plan backfires.”
Larry gave me a handwritten list of the slip owners in the marina. We composed a fairly detailed note explaining everything we knew, then stapled it to the front of the freezer bag and placed them both in a large manila envelope. I wrote Brian Newman’s name on the envelope with a black, fine-point Sharpie and left it on the desk. I prayed he would never see it—if he did, my genius plan had fallen flat on its face, and I had fallen somewhere else.
He wished us luck and gave me a brief, embarrassing hug.
“See ya later,” he said.
I hoped he was right.
CHAPTER 47
I pulled my Lexus off Folly Road and up to the chain blocking the parking lot to the Folly View Marina; the analog clock on the dash read 7:29. I had been tempted to keep driving until the car ran out of gas, hopefully hundreds of miles from doom.
Two lights on a telephone pole provided minimal illumination on the front of the lot. A second pole at the walkway to the dock held two light fixtures that emitted nothing—hardly a confidence builder. The two covered vehicles hadn’t moved. Additionally, there was a midseventies Chrysler parked just inside the chains and an old Dodge van near the back. It wasn’t one of the popular minivans, but a bus-sized vehicle that decreased in popularity in inverse correlation to the rising price of gas. At least one, maybe two, of the slips were empty where boats had been the day before. I heard the roar of an occasional passing vehicle on Folly Road and distant, indecipherable voices from Mariner’s Cay. Other than that, nothing. Even the cricket who had guarded the gate earlier remained silent.
I had never been happier to see someone than I was when Charles pulled up in his classic convertible. I silently apologized to his Saab for the nasty things I’d said about its ability—or inability—to run.
He slammed the door and walked around the front of his car to meet me.
“Hello, Mr. Photo Man,” he said in a stage whisper. “Thanks for meeting me.
“How’s your sister?” I asked, continuing our poorly rehearsed conversation.
“Much better. I’d hate for anything to happen to her; she’s my favorite.”
Such a happy imaginary family. I stayed far enough away from him so our raised voices wouldn’t draw undue suspicion. “So what’s so important we had to meet here?”
“Did you get the list of the owners?” he asked, in response to my question.
I handed him the list from Larry—source unknown. Charles took it with more fanfare than if I’d handed him the original Gettysburg Address.
I’d already circled slip number five. He looked at the list, hesitated, and gave me a quizzical look. I ignored him.
We slowly walked toward the back of the lot and headed down the wooden bridge separating the land from the floating dock. I don’t think either of us wanted to get there first. The temperature must have been in the fifties; I was shivering—partially caused by a brisk wind coming from the ocean, partially by what we were doing. I almost fell off the narrow plank. I told Charles it was my clumsiness but knew it was really fear. The sound of Charles’s cane hitting the wooden planks reverberated in my ears. If Charles weren’t blocking my way, I would have been in the car in ten seconds, including the time it would take to unlock the door.
I knew at least one person—maybe more—had read the note; the odds were good we weren’t alone. I kept thinking how stupid our actions were with each step along the deserted, nearly dark pier. The numbers were hand painted in yellow on the wooden deck at the end of each slip. We had to pass three before we reached number five. Its occupant looked like the hundreds of older fishing boats dotting the coast and intercoastal waterways. Its paint was peeling, its surfaces were addled with rust, and an old, brown, paint-stained tarpaulin covered the pilot housing. We stood about three feet down the pier, next to the bow of the old boat. Charles was uncannily quiet. His cane had stopped tapping.
I was startled—but not the least bit surprised—at the sight of a shiny, chrome handgun pointed at us from the edge of the tarp. Attached to the gun was the right hand of a very angry Buddy Miller.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, keep walking, and climb aboard,” he said. “Why the fuck couldn’t you two mind your own business? Never mind ... shit. Get in here, now.” His command sounded like a growl.
I didn’t know what was on Charles’s mind, but I knew we needed to obey or try to find a way to attack. Buddy was only six feet away. Could he shoot both of us before Charles or I could subdue him?
I couldn’t see any upside to getting shot. And our odds of escape decreased drastically when I heard the not-so-pleasing voice of Amelia’s angelic daughter behind us.
“You heard the man!” barked Sandy, not nearly as sweet as during our previous conversations. “You get in the boat now, or your miserable, snooping, trouble-making lives end right here.” She was dressed in black, her wool pea hat pulled down over her ears. I could only guess that she had been in one of the boats we had passed.
The double-barrel shotgun she pointed at us sealed the deal. It wasn’t nearly as shiny as Buddy’s handgun, but its barrels looked slightly larger than the barrels of the cannons protecting the battery. I could tell Charles wanted to say something. Wisdom won out, and he kept his mouth closed.
Climbing onto a rocking boat, in the dark, with two guns pointed at us was not a simple task. I nearly fell against the side of the swaying boat; Charles’s cane hit me in the thigh. Sandy didn’t help make the task any easier with her barrage of questions.
“How’d you know it was us? Why did you even get involved? Why, why ... shit, never mind.”
She and Buddy were beginning to sound alike.
“You don’t mess with our friends,” responded Charles with more bravado than a reasonable person should have under the circumstances.
Charles and I finally made it on board; Buddy kept his pistol pointed between the two of us, easily able to change its direction and silence the target of his ire. Sandy was already on the pier, loosening the old, rotting ropes securing the boat.
I interpreted before they shot Charles on attitude alone.
“Why kill Mike?” I asked to neither of them in particular.
“Don’t get me started,” growled Sandy from behind us. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but clearly the Millers were running the show. “I’m the only one who ever cared about Mom. I visited almost every day, did whatever she wanted, always was there for her. Yet, who the hell do you think she was constantly talking about? Mike this, Mike that, Steven this, Steven that.” Her mocking tone said it all. “She was always worried about them, wondering if they were okay, looking forward to their fuckin’ visits—the visits so damn rare I could count them on one hand.”
“That had to drive you crazy,” I said to keep the conversation going. I hoped it would be hard to shoot and talk at the same time.
“I’d put up with it for years and guess I could have continued to until I learned about Mom’s cancer. I knew about Palmer’s will; shit, I typed the damn thing. Then the doctor told her how little time she had ...”
“Calm down, Sandy,” interrupted Buddy. “No need to say more.”
“Shut up, Buddy,” she said, not taking her eyes off me. “You know where my beloved brothers were then? Nowhere around ... fuckin’ nowhere around.” She held the rope in her left hand, resting the barrel of the shotgun on her bent elbow. Both hands were visibly shaking, but her grip on the shotgun was still in control.
“So how’d you con Palmer into going out in the water?” asked Charles.
My need for talk rather than being shot was rubbing off.
“Come on, Sandy,” said an irritated Buddy. “Get in the damn boat, and let’s get this over with.”
“Give me a minute,” she said, sloughing off his irritation. “There’s no hurry. These two aren’t going anywhere,”
Not only was she in charge, but she liked to hear herself talk—a good sign.
“Palmer was a creature of habit,” she continued. “Every day, he closed his shop, stopped at the bank, deposited the receipts, and then stopped at the Piggly Wiggly. He told Mom he had to have his fresh vegetables. All I had to do was be at the store, fill my cart, wait for him to head to the checkout line, act surprised to see him, talk a little about Mom, and wait for him to offer to take my groceries to the car. He was such a gentleman—his bad luck. No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Then?” I nudged. I figured she wanted to unveil her masterful plot, even to a soon-to-be departed audience. Buddy was the one I was worried about; he didn’t want to hear the story again.
“That was the touchy part,” she said, “but it worked. I was afraid someone might see us in the parking lot, but it was nearly deserted. Know how vulnerable someone is when putting a sack of groceries in the backseat?” she asked with a giggle.
I failed to see the humor but waited.
“I just gave him a tap—okay, a hard tap—on the head and pushed him in after the bag of food.”
“Enough,” said the impatient and increasingly irritated Buddy. He pushed the barrel of his gun in Charles’s ribs. “Sit!”
I thought I could guess the rest and didn’t want to risk Buddy’s volatile side by pressing for more information. I stopped asking questions and prayed Charles would follow. He did as he landed hard on the steel crossbeam, his cane flying to the rear.
“Why the hell didn’t you two just drop dead in your damn gallery when I shut off the pilot light?” Sandy asked. “Why didn’t you let Buddy run you down in the middle of the damn street? Why—”
I had never thought I’d love the next words I heard.
“Police! Get your hands up!” bellowed the recognizable voice of a former military police officer and my favorite police chief in the world—maybe in the universe.
At the same time, the immediate area was bathed in the cold, white light from handheld spotlights coming from three sides. Four smaller flashlights were rapidly bobbing toward slip number five. The lights were blinding and disorienting. Brian and three of his officers had come running from the old van parked in the lot; the sounds and spotlight from a police boat approached from the north.
Like the obedient citizens we were, Charles and I reached for the winter stars. And thank our lucky stars, so did the Miller family. The shotgun clanged to the bottom of the small, rusting boat.
“Did you get it all?” the chief asked me, never taking his eyes off Buddy and Sandy. Officers Spencer and Robins grabbed the gun Buddy still had in his hand and picked up the shotgun. They yanked Buddy off the rocking boat, escorted Sandy slightly more gingerly, and pushed both to the wooden deck.
“I think so,” I said and stepped off the boat to the slightly more stable dock. “The recorder worked fine before we headed out here.”
I took the cell phone—sized audio recorder from my jacket pocket, rewound the tape, and hit the Play button. After the words “testing, testing ...” Buddy’s unfeeling, sharp voice said, “Keep your hands ...” I smiled and handed the recorder to the chief.
“I saw everything,” said Brian. “Larry’s night goggles were great. Remind me not to ask him where they came from.”
“What night goggles?” I said.
“If the city’s budget wasn’t so tight,” Brian continued, “we’d have our own high-tech tools. Did they tell you how they got Palmer into the boat?”
“Not everything, but if you have the sheriff s forensics experts check the boat, I’d put money on finding blood or at least prints somewhere in there that belonged to Palmer.”
Brian had seen everything and now had a recording of the chain of events, including complete—or nearly complete—confessions. There was little else to be said. The Millers were not-so-politely escorted to one of the two Crown Victoria cruisers parked along Folly Road just outside the chained entry. I thanked Brian for listening at least one more time; he expressed irritation with citizens snooping where they shouldn’t, then mumbled thanks under his breath. I told him I had things to do, and I was dismissed; I had no problem with that.
